


variations on death

by ravenslight



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Dementors, Gen, I'm not even sure if this works lol, Inspired by Music, M/M, Redemption, The Veil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:15:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26658775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenslight/pseuds/ravenslight
Summary: It is common wisdom that there are only two options for a witch or wizard upon death: they may choose to linger on this earth as a ghost or move beyond the Veil. However, in exceedingly rare circumstances, a witch or wizard of considerable talent may be approached to carry out Death's bidding—as a Dementor
Relationships: Albus Dumbledore/Gellert Grindelwald
Comments: 12
Kudos: 22
Collections: Sing Me a Rare: UK Invasion!





	variations on death

**Author's Note:**

> Hiya! So your friendly neighborhood admin here with the dementor pairing because apparently I like to be crazy. Who knew! I have no idea if what follows actually works. This has not been alpha or beta read, but I did edit it pretty thoroughly before posting, so it shouldn't too much of a hassle to read.
> 
> My song was Back to Black by Amy Winehouse
> 
> Quick note: I intentionally used third person pronouns when referencing Death. If that bothers you, probs not the fic for you.

**variations on death**

**May 1899**

“I’ll have a box of lemon drops, if you please.” 

“That’ll be two sickles.” The elderly witch on the other side of the counter stares down at him, something between pity and revulsion creeping across her features. Behind him, a long line of customers shift impatiently. 

Albus Dumbledore carefully counts his dull coins onto the countertop, thankful for an excuse to break the witch's gaze. Her expression is one Albus has become accustomed to since his mother’s death.

Half the town wonders if he had any part in her passing, but none of them are brave enough to ask him.

The few coins he has rolls across the butcher block countertop pitifully. Precisely six knuts and a singular sickle glint back at him, and he forces back a sigh. The lemon drops are the only thing that have been able to bring Ariana any semblance of happiness since their mother died, and his failure stabs through him again, a painful lance. “I apologise. It appears as though I’ve spread myself a little thin; nothing for me today.” 

Embarrassment rolls a hot flush over his shoulders, and he moves to sweep the coins into his pouch again, but a hand closes over them, followed by a warm body pressing into his space. “Please add them to my tab.”

The stranger is a peculiar man. He’s thin and reedy, his white-blond hair combed back into a stiff pompadour, but it’s his eyes that are perhaps his most intriguing feature. So pale blue they’re nearly white, they seem to pierce right through Albus. When the man tosses a coin on the countertop and lifts a brow, Albus collects himself. “That’s really not necessary. I don’t even know—”

“My name?” the man interrupts, and his voice is no less honeyed than it was when he spoke to the attendant. “Gellert Grindelwald. In town visiting my Aunt Bathilda.” 

Understanding dawns on Albus, and he offers the man a genuine smile as Madam Meriam handed over their treats. “Ah, yes, I’d heard that you were visiting. Bathilda is a family friend. Have you learned the area?”

Grindelwald ticks his head to the side. “I’m afraid not. I’ve only just arrived, and I intended to pay my respects to family lost, though I believe I’ve lost my way.”

Nodding, Albus thanks Madam Mariam and turns towards his new friend. “I can show you the way. Do you happen to know the names of your ancestors? The cemetery is small, but it’s always good to have a starting point.” 

“Peverell.” 

“Oh!” Albus’ step falters for only a moment. “Some of the oldest graves in the cemetery, then.” Grindelwald’s gaze turns sharp—almost calculating, Albus might say… but he quickly shakes the thought away. He’s barely known the man for five minutes; his suspicion is unwarranted, the product of a town’s judgement and gossip. He gestures Grindelwald forward, leading him away from the counter. “Did you know that there’s a legend about the three Peverell brothers? Some believe they were once the Masters of Death.”

A smile breaks over Grindelwald’s features, and something tightens in Albus’ chest. “A wand, a cloak, and a stone,” Grindelwald recites. “I’m familiar with it.”

When he winks, uncomfortable warmth effuses Albus’ cheeks, and he turns away lest he be seen. “Of course, how foolish—” 

“Rather kind of you to help a stranger,” Grindelwald interrupts, following Albus through the door of the shop and onto the street. “I believe we’ll get on quite well.”

There’s a promise in his tone that Albus can’t quite ignore.

**September 1899**

Ariana sits on the singular bed in the basement of the Dumbledore home, ear pressed against the thin wall.

Albus and his strange friend have spent the last few months in the small room adjacent to hers, whispering their secrets to one another, coming and going at strange times. He used to sit with her, read her stories for long hours before he returned to the Ministry to complete paperwork even when she told him she could handle herself just fine. But after their mother died… Albus became a ghost of himself, a storm cloud of emotions that threatened to pull her under with him even as he offered her what comfort he could.

But since he met Grindelwald, he’s changed. 

Albus has always been intensely private, but his aspirations had been dashed with their mother’s passing. In those first long, dark months afterwards, he’d withdrawn from everything he loved so much, resigned to the pauper’s life he’d never wanted just so he could care for his invalid sister.

Ariana had hated it. Hated the way the light in his eyes had dimmed, the way his magic seemed to stutter in his grief—an emotion she wasn’t entirely sure she could link to just Kendra’s death. He’d lost more than a mother that day, and the guilt of it threatened to drag Ariana down with him.

But then Grindelwald arrived, and Albus was bright again. His spark had returned. He  _ read _ again, devouring books like he’d once done so voraciously. He wrote and studied and  _ lived  _ again.

For a brief time, Ariana found herself grateful for the new wizard that had befriended Albus. If he brought her brother back, she would greet him gratefully. But then it shifted.

Open laughter at the dinner table had become closed doors and whispered incantations. Jotted notes on parchment carefully tilted away from their vision. Sneaking out with the wizard at all hours. Dark circles under his eyes, hastily healed palms from blood rites. Whispered greetings about something called the “greater good.” Grindelwald was like a drug that he continued to return to even as it tore the remnants of the Dumbledore family apart.

Ariana does not have to be a witch to understand the precarious ledge on which Albus teeters. 

Even Aberforth, so lost in his grief, has noticed it. Now, he sits on the bed beside her, his hand fisted around the wand he rarely uses anymore. 

Albus had arrived home late the night before, stinking of blood and ash. Aberforth hadn’t let her go to him, even after he’d passed out on the cold cement floor in the room next to hers, but she can still feel the ugly stink of magic that roils from the room Grindelwald had disappeared into this morning.

Aberforth shifts beside her as whispers sound beneath the crack in the door; Albus has grown lax with basic charms. Ariana can feel tension blanketing her skin like a ugly ichor, and she cocks her head to the side, trying to fight against the way it calls to something feral within her.

She doesn’t let it out. Not since— 

Shuddering, she turns towards Aberforth. “Do you think he’ll—”

The door clicks open, and Albus and Grindelwald exit together, gleeful smiles on their faces. 

Ariana’s heart sings for a moment—it’s so good to see Albus  _ smile _ —before reality crashes down upon her. 

“You’re no longer welcome in this house,” Aberforth grates out, standing and placing himself between her and Albus. She can no longer see Albus’ face, but when he speaks it’s clear that he no longer wears a smile.

“Aberforth, please—”

“No, Albus.” Aberforth makes a slashing motion with his hand, cutting Albus off. “It’s gone on too long. You’ve been locking yourself away with him for  _ months _ , seeking some fantasy that doesn’t exist. The Deathly Hallows are a legend from a children’s story. That’s it. We’re you’re family—we ought to be enough for you, but we’re not. Whatever he’s been telling you—”

Though Aberforth’s frame blocks Ariana’s view, she can hear Albus take a step forward. “It’s not a legend. We believe we’ve found them.”

“That’s  _ enough _ ,” Aberforth hisses. “This is a fool’s errand, Albus. You’re wasting all your time on this ridiculous scheme with some half-cocked wizard who can’t even respect your family enough to allow them time to grieve without trying to steal you away for his illusions of glory.”

Grindelwald steps out of the shadowed doorway, his lip curled as he stalks forward. “Watch yourself, little Dumbledore. You don’t want to hurt yourself playing with things you don’t understand.”

Ariana can hear the sneer in Aberforth’s voice when he speaks. “I know a snake when I see one.”

The angry magic that coils in the shadows of the room seems to compress inward, and though Ariana sucks in a breath to shout at Aberforth, Grindelwald moves before she can react. 

“ _ Crucio _ !” 

With a pained shout, Aberforth falls to the floor, his body contorting as the curse sears into his bones.

“Gellert,  _ no _ !” Albus steps forward, wand raised. “ _ Please _ .” His voice breaks on the word, but Grindelwald continues his spell, a manic smile stretching across his face. 

The last thing Ariana sees before she curls into herself, fear skittering along her arms, is Albus raising his wand against Grindelwald as the world explodes in spellwork.

* * *

When she finally lifts her head and pulls her hands away from her ears, Ariana’s head hurts, and she’s distantly aware of ringing in her ears.

Vaulted ceilings boast ornate chandeliers above her, and light rains down upon her in a kaleidoscope of dappling colours that chase along her skin. 

"Ah, welcome, my dear. I wondered when you might traverse this plane." A voice speaks, both young and old, male and female at the same time, and Ariana freezes for a moment.

Forcing several deep breaths, Ariana fights to regain her senses before she tears her gaze upwards. A cloaked figure stands before her, face hidden in the shadows of a long, billowing white robe. Although she’s quite certain she’s never met the being before, she feels no fear. 

“Who are you?” The question is clunky on her tongue, but the being indulges her.

“I’m afraid that my name has long been forgotten by mortal tongue, though every human knows of the consequences in meeting me.” The answer is as veiled as the creature is, and Ariana simply tilts her head, waiting. After a moment, the creature seems to laugh, though the sound is dry and raspy, like they have forgotten the sound of true laughter. “"Do you know what occurs after death?"

_ Death _ .

The question jolts her. She briefly considers the merits of arguing with the being, but a flicker of memory flashes through her: bright, terrible wandfire and then the briefest sting of pain before it all goes dark.

Perhaps it’s better not to know for the moment, so she foregoes answering the question.

Slowly, she takes inventory of herself, fingers trailing to her ears and head to check for wounds, though she finds none. Fear might have once seized her, but instead a deep, pervading calm spreads through her chest. After several moments of silence, Ariana addresses the being. "When a witch or wizard dies, he or she either chooses to move through the Veil—to an eternal rest—or exist on the earthly plane in a sort of half-life as a ghost."

Long, withered fingers steeple together before what Ariana assumes is the creature’s chin, and it forces another laugh, though this one sounds truer. They speak, almost as though to themself. "How quick humanity is to forget the nuances of existence."

"I'm sorry?" For the first time since opening her eyes, something flip flops in her stomach, nervous energy driving her forward a couple faltering steps. "I don't understand."

"No, I suppose you wouldn't." The being taps their hip. "Come, my dear, and let me tell you a story about Death."

She does not have to ask to know that the story is the creature’s own.

A wave of their gnarled hands reveals an overstuffed settee, a tray of tea and crumpets alongside it. They direct her towards the seat, and she settles into it with far more grace than she feels.

The creature leans forward, tipping their head towards her. "When wizards first discovered the benefits of harnessing magic with a utilitarian tool, it was often and unfortunate that many of them would meet their demise at their own hand," Death intoned, a wistful sort of melancholy to his story.

They allow her a moment, but when she doesn’t respond, they continue their tale.

"As with any power, there are those who abuse it. Once wizards determined that they could harness magic in its rawest form through the use of a wand, the natural order was superseded. Wizards invented new forms of magic—terrible, destructive manipulations of raw energy—which caused death and torture to their counterparts. And, as with any existence, there are variations on the concept of death.” Looking away, Death seemed to seep sadness from their very being. “The Veil became overrun by those whose souls were irreparably broken.”

Ariana can barely breathe through her fear, but she nods, whispering, “And what of those who can’t be sent through to rest?”

Death looks back at her. "It is common wisdom that there are only two options for a witch or wizard upon death: they may choose to linger on this earth as a ghost or move beyond the Veil. I am afraid not even I know what occurs beyond the Veil. I simply… ferry the souls, if you will."

Ariana nods. "But what is uncommon wisdom?"

A gust of ethereal magic caresses her cheek, and she can feel Death's approval in it. "In exceedingly rare circumstances, a witch or wizard of considerable talent may be approached to become something of a third party judiciary."

The words are veiled, but fear twists in Ariana's chest all the same. 

With a deep sigh, Death clarifies. "In rare circumstances, a witch or wizard will be approached to carry out Death's bidding—as a Dementor."

Gooseflesh breaks out on her arms, and she recoils into the settee. “But you misunderstand—I have no magic; I’m a Squib.”

Death makes a noise in the back of their throat that she recognises as a scolding. “Through no fault of your own, that magic turned inwards.” 

The acknowledgement of her terrible power—that malevolent storm inside her which fought to unleash itself in the midst of Aberforth’s argument with Grindelwald and Albus—sobers her, and she considers the being’s words. She’s never seen a dementor, but she knows of them. They exist to steal the souls of criminals, to leave them in a semi-living state worse than a half-life. She fears nothing more.

Death must feel her terror, as he leans forward, voice imploring. “Dementors are much more than wizard-kind knows them to be. Without them, the delicate balance of the world would fall into limbo. Without them, the souls who intend to do nothing but kill, who want nothing but power, would succeed.” 

She doesn’t understand, but she tries to school her fear all the same.

“Those witches and wizards who become Dementors are able to travel between planes, across time, to do as needed; they may take a wizard's soul or alter the timeline as necessary to afford him or her the moment needed to affect change,” Death intones, their voice earnest. “Whole worlds could be changed, beings saved, by will of Dementors. Their magic is a powerful one, entirely unexplored by wizard-kind because of fear alone.” 

Death stands, their seat vanishing, as they stalk towards her. “Grindelwald is not the wizard he claims to be,” they uttered, voices blending together to a low murmur. “But you, Ariana,  _ you _ could help stop him. Your brother needs you.” 

Behind him, the fog clears, and she sees him.

Albus.

He's sitting on the basement floor, head in his hands as tears rain over his cheeks. Something lies crumpled in his lap, and upon closer inspection, she realises it's her own broken body. 

"He grieves you," Death whispers, their voice melodic and clear. 

Something spears through Ariana at that moment, and if she could cry, tears of her own would float through the ether and join Albus'. 

"You have the opportunity to right those wrongs." Death faces her. “A wizard will come, just as Grindelwald has, who wants to destroy Muggle-borns, who wants to rule, and he will use my instruments to do so.”

Ariana feels her jaw drop. “The Deathly Hallows—”

“Are no legend.” Death inclines their head. “Once, they were won from me and hidden, and now they fall peril to becoming warped and misused for power. You must not let that happen; it is Albus’ fate to assist the boy who will prevent it, but he will need help; there are moments in his life that represent a crossroads for Albus. He will need  _ you  _ to help him see that which he should choose, but he can never know it was you. To know so would permanently alter any chance of the boy’s success.” 

It's a tempting offer, something she's unsure she's wholly capable of, but her brother’s grief is her undoing, and she turns to Death, offering her hand in a fool's acceptance. "Tell me what I need to do."

* * *

Albus is broken.

For his whole life, he'd believed himself good and strong, striding ardently towards that which he believed was true and fair.

But Ariana's body lays in a broken heap in his arms, her eyes gazing sightlessly at the ceiling.

A tiny trickle of blood snakes down her chin and towards her deep purple jumper—her favourite. The lemon drops he had bought her the day before lie forgotten beside him; he hadn’t had a chance to give them to her.

Somewhere beyond the haze of his sorrow, he can hear Gellert’s clumsy apologies. “Albus, I—” 

"Get out." Albus' tone is cold and foreign even to himself, but it doesn't bely the conviction in his tone. The hatred.

Rubble skitters over the floor as Gellert scrabbles towards him. "Come with me," the wizard implores, kneeling beside him. Soot cuts craggy lines over his features, nearly obscuring the brilliance of his cut jaw.

"Get out!" Albus roars, coiling protectively around Ariana. Words babble out of his lips, falling over one another in their desperate bid for escape, but he can't stop them. 

"It was an accident, Albus. I swear it." Gellert's hand is clammy where it clasps his shoulder, and if Albus' very soul could recoil, it would. 

"Get the fuck out of my house, Grindelwald." 

The man above him seizes, his back going ramrod straight, and Albus can sense the tension in the other man. He's never spoken to his companion—his lover—in that tone, but there are more pressing matters to attend to than Gellert's feelings.

Something bitter and angry unleashes in Albus' chest, but he can’t respond to Gellert before Aberforth is there, wrenching Ariana's body from his arms as he yells at Albus, spittle raining over him. "You've killed her! You were too selfish—too  _ blind _ —to listen to me, and now she's dead!"

Albus doesn’t see the blow coming. Aberforth punches him with his whole body weight, throwing himself forward, and the crunch of the bone is a welcome pain to cover the grief in his chest at his sister’s broken body and the pain in his heart from Gellert’s retreating steps.

"What have you done?" Aberforth’s question comes out on a sob, and he collapses into a heap with Ariana in his lap. "Oh, Ari, what have they done to you?"

If there were anything left of Albus' heart, it would have rended in two. 

**March 1945**

Death had provided her a list of moments, and the skip forward through time had been nauseating, but it was nothing so nerve wracking as the display before her. 

Watching Albus duel is like watching a fencer weave his rapier through narrow, graceful arcs. His wands seems an extension of his will, casting in tandem with every waking thought almost of its own accord. 

Grindelwald is a formidable sight in his own regard. For as wiry and slight as he is, his magic is frightening. It arcs from the tip of his wand in 

Grindelwald strikes with each step, his wandfire a volley of different colours that illuminate their respective glares. 

Ariana holds a breath that isn't necessary. Even as Death's warnings ring in her ears, she wishes—wholly, entirely—that she could intervene.

A sweat is breaking across Albus' forehead as he paces forward. "Gellert, it doesn't have to be this way. The wizarding world can coexist alongside Muggles." The strain in his voice is obvious—he doesn't want to hurt Gellert, and part of Ariana is incensed that he still refuses to see the other wizard for who he truly is.

After all these years, Albus still can't see beyond the man's veneer before him to see the soul that rots beneath the skin. 

"Albus, we fight for the Greater Good." He slashes his wand down in a violent arc, the fury of it opening a bloody gash on Albus' unguarded side. "Think of the power we could wield together. You, at my right side. You must recognise the opportunity."

Albus' hand trembles on the length of his wand, but there's determination in his step that wasn't there the last time Ariana saw him argue with the other man. "It's not worth it anymore!" he cries, losing the polishing he's spent so many years perfecting for a life spent in the limelight. "Too many have died, and far many more will before you're through."

A manic laugh rips from Gellert's throat. "You've never been one so easily fooled, Albus." He shakes his head, running his free hand over the intricate threading of his brocaded waistcoat as though a duel is usual fair. "Where did your fire go? Your passion? Has the Ministry leashed you so easily?" 

"You’re better than this, Gellert!”

"And you aren't half the man I once thought you were, Albus. How the mighty have fallen." Grindelwald's wand is a flicker at his side, his opposite hand twisting a spell jar loose from around his neck and tossing it to the ground.

From the distance, Ariana can tell the magic is ancient and powerful, though not deadly; meant to distract, it implodes as soon as it collides with the dusty ground, sending a scattering of jagged rocks outward. Even as Albus throws a shield upright before him, one of the craggy spikes cuts through the ground behind him, and he pitches forward.

A scream rises up in Ariana's throat. Albus falls, his wand forgotten as he throws his arms out to brace himself, but the shield falters, and Grindelwald lashes outward once more with a jagged flicker of crimson light.

The curse catches Albus in the chest as he falls, arms outstretched before him. Recognition flickers over his face, something like resignation following it in the split seconds following it. 

It happens in a matter of seconds. Albus tumbles to the ground, his body incredibly still. Grindelwald stands on the opposite side of the clearing, chest heaving.

And high above them, floating above a rocky ledge, Ariana's heart breaks again.

* * *

His wrist hurts.

Funny, for that to be his first thought. But it's true enough—he can feel the throb settling into the joint where he threw his arms before him to catch himself. When he pushes himself upright, the ache splinters up his arm, and he grimaces, biting his tongue to keep his scream at bay. 

When he manages to stand, the area around him is familiar. The same giant shards of rock have erupted from the ground. Dust still settles in the air. If he sniffs hard enough, he's sure he'd be able to smell the perspiration still drying at the base of his spine.

Albus considers himself a rather intelligent man, yet he's never considered what may occur after death.

There are some things far more painful than even he can stand. 

But when he turns and sees a figure floating towards him, a disbelieving laugh escapes him.

"Shall I greet you as an old friend?" he utters, forcing joviality in his tone to mask the brief shudder of fear that runs down his spine. 

The figure jolts to a stop, its robes barely brushing the ground.

Death is slighter than he had anticipated. No taller than his chest, its robes seem to hang from its frame, like it has yet to grow into them. It's peculiar, but also endearing, and Albus finds his fear has escaped him.

Two steps forward bring him in line with the being's eyesight—or where he assumes that it would be, for he cannot see beneath the depths of its hood. "Can you tell me where one might find a map, perhaps? It’s my first trip to the afterlife—and it appears as though it will be my last." He booms a laugh, and the being flinches.

Something trills up his spine, a warning, perhaps, and Albus studies it closer. Though slight, he recognises the robes, ratty and frayed as they are. A Dementor. A shudder rolls over him, and he recoils. “What do you want? Dementors are—”

“You know very little about which you intend to speak, Albus Dumbledore.” The voice from beneath the hood is far more feminine than he had anticipated. It quakes, whether from nerves or age, Albus isn't sure. But there's also a distinct quality to it, something that prods at the back of his mind. The Dementor tips its head at him, and its next words send a chill through him. "It is not your time." 

Again, he approaches, his hands held limply at his side. "I'm afraid I don't understand." He turns back the way he came, his gaze roaming the ground he'd pushed himself from. 

Seeing his mortal form prone on the ground is far more jarring than he anticipated. He looks broken, much smaller than the persona he's built up around himself. In that moment, he supposes that his magic is perhaps more of a physical presence in him than he anticipated, but he turns back towards Death and lifts his careful in a semblance of a carefree shrug. "It appears as though I am quite dead." 

The being beneath the hood steps back with a firm shake of its head. It appears more confident now, but—the robes that drape it suddenly come into sharp focus, and Dumbledore frowns, shifting into an offensive position despite his distinct inability to protect himself. "Why would Death send one of its hand servants to dispatch a wizard's soul upon dying?" 

Again the creature bows its heads, refusing to let him see within the depths of its hood. "It is not your place to question the Death's machinations." Its voice grows stronger, more sure of itself with each word, though it still holds the willowy wisp of youth that he'd first recognised. “Return to yourself, Albus, and don’t forget the merits of basic spellwork.”

The last thing Albus sees before he winks away is a familiar blonde braid tumbling out of the depths of the Dementor’s hood.

* * *

On the ground far below her, Ariana watches as Albus sucks in a heaving breath, though his shoulders barely more. He won’t remember the encounter, but hopefully his magic will. 

If she hadn’t been looking, she’d have missed the shield he silently casts around himself.

And Grindelwald, high on the elation of his victory, misses it as well.

In the span of a second, Albus rolls to the side and, from beneath his prone figure, withdraws his wand. The spell is simple but effective, and the Elder Wand arcs through the air and into Albus’ waiting hand even as he binds Grindelwald with his original wand.

**July 1980**

Years have not erased Albus’ need to save wretched souls, and Harry Potter’s is no exception. 

The squealing toddler in his arms reminds Ariana of a feral cat, the way it refuses to lie still, but she supposes he has reason to after the horrors she witnessed that evening. Part of her resents the boy for his role in her brother’s life, that Albus’ atonement lies in the little boy with the scar on his forehead, but she follows, keeping a wary eye on the two of them even as she feels the part of Peter Pettigrew’s soul she sucked away like a lead weight in her stomach.

For her brother, she will do whatever it takes.

**July 1993**

Azkaban prison is a cold, dreary sort of place. The walls themselves seem to be made of stone that leach all its warmth, tall, cragged expanses of black-grey rock towering in cavernous halls. Ariana can see the appeal as other dementors float in the liminal spaces like harbingers of the prisoners’ palpable dread. 

Even beings so unfeeling as herself can feel the leach of the cold stone trying to drag her under; it’s little wonder that the prisoners rot in their cells like little more than human bags of bones. 

One, however, burns brightly, his defiance a candle in a dark which knows no true light.

Her feet glide soundlessly over the floors as she goes. Perhaps it's the face she wears under her robes or her single-minded determination, but the other dementors give her a wide berth. 

Ariana finds she doesn’t much mind the solitude; it rather suits her and her inclinations. 

The upper-most level of the prison holds the wizarding world’s most dangerous prisoners, and it is there where Ariana spends the majority of her time. It’s both fascinating and terrifying to roam the long corridor that leads to the cells—the paths of which have only be tread by the few brave souls who have tried and failed to defend magic’s most dastardly—as they peer out between the bars. Most of them are able to summon no more energy than to aim noncommittal glares. Others snarl and clamor across the floor in a flurry of matted hair and broken nails. 

The last cell bears startling differences to those which precede it. Even yards before the bars switch over to the newly installed steel, an uncharacteristic warmth exudes from the depths of shadows here. Weak bars of half-light lend no warmth to the gloom. 

Unintelligible muttering plays on a loop from a hunched figure in the corner of the cell, a black matted mass on his head more mane than hair. She’s not sure what his role is in the Potter boy’s life, but Death was clear in their instructions. 

“Sirius Black.” Ariana doesn’t recognize her voice. It’s scratchy and hoarse from disuse, nearly silent but for its echo off the stone, but the specter of a man whirls towards it.

“Who's there?” He scrambles upright on shaky legs. The stone at his back is the only thing holding him upright, and he flickers his eyes over the bars desperately. 

With an unnecessary breath, Ariana glides forward, wrapping her hands around the bars just above the lock. She possesses no magic, and even if she did, she wouldn’t know where to begin to unfasten the locking mechanism. “Remember who you are.” 

The plea is more cryptic than she’d prefer, but Death’s warning is clear to her this day as it was the first moment after her body breathed its last: ours is a careful paradigm, and to give too much is to alter the projection of the future catastrophically.

Using the wall to propel himself forwards, Sirius Black launches himself at her, a manic laugh escaping him as he sneers at her. “Remember who I am.” Another laugh, high and thin, punctuates the repetition. “

His rancid breath washes over her, and she’s thankful for the hood that hides her visible recoil. Prison has broken nearly broken his physical body, but it hasn’t stolen his spirit. For that, she’s thankful. 

Just as he moves to reach through the narrow opening, a door on the level below clangs open. Hurried footsteps follow, moving in their direction as the voices grow louder. 

“I’m telling you, Cornelius, they’re all wasting away. There’s no need for you to visit them.”

Cornelius Fudge’s voice boomed through the moans that a new visitor wrought from the prisoners. “I’ll see it for myself. A Minister’s job is to secure the safety of their people, and that begins with ensuring criminals are locked behind bars where they belong.” 

The man accompanying Fudge attempts to argue back, but a flash of light followed by a bang and a shocked gasp silence his arguments. 

Sirius’ face morphs into a twisted smile as Fudge approaches. “Remember who I am, aye?” Sirius mutters almost as to himself, a feral gleam in his eyes seeing right through her. She can nearly see the visions of escape blooming before him. “Too right.” 

Fudge pauses before Sirius cell, his nose turning up at the stench. 

“Minister, it’s so good to see you. Imprisoned any other innocent wizards lately or is my case still the biggest blight on your career? Still continuing to deny a review?” His voice is still weak, but Ariana can hear the strength of his vitriol bearing him forward. 

The Minister recoils from Sirius’ emaciated arm. With the halflight streaming over his gaunt cheeks, the angles of Sirius’ face are cast in sharper relief. Even Ariana shudders at the image. 

“Mister Black, your case is clear cut; you shall remain in Azkaban for the rest of your days.” Fudge sounds almost bored, his nose turned up as he pauses outside the man’s cell. If the threat phases Sirius at all, he doesn’t show it. Instead his grin grows wider, focusing on the newspaper tucked under Fudge’s arm.

Sirius’ eyes tighten minutely, narrowing on the front page. Ariana can’t make out the image splashed across the front page, but a sudden, persistent tug behind her navel indicates that her presence has served the purpose required of her. She begins to ascend towards the ceiling, intent on gliding over the remainder of the interaction.

“Say, Corny, are you through with the paper? Mind giving it to a poor old sod destined to die in prison?” Something about Sirius has drawn together; he’s far more alive than he was just minutes prior, and Ariana spares him one last study as she glides away.

When the paper lands in his hands, he immediately turns to the corner of the room, hobbling into one of the slants of light and tilting it towards his face. 

The last thing Ariana hears is Sirius Black’s manic laughter.

**August 1995**

In all her time serving Death, Ariana has never broken rank. She’s never questioned that she must do whatever she can to serve Death as needed, to gently push Albus on whatever path Death advises her to. Her job is to serve, and she knows that it will end in Albus’ death at some point. 

To right the wrongs he set in motion, it must be done.

But part of her is still selfish, and it wants a  _ life  _ for Albus, not a never-ending chase for redemption that he may never reach. 

And so she breaks with Death’s orders.

Harry Potter is alone with his cousin when she approaches them. The storm clouds she brings with her afford cover, but Potter is a wizard and an unfortunate brush with her colleagues in his third year means that he is aware of the sign.

He runs, and she must follow. 

Albus still does not know the extent to which Lord Voldemort has fractured his soul; although he suspects, he is not aware that Harry Potter is the seventh Horcrux, unintended by the Dark Lord.

Part of her loathes the boy, the obvious affection that Albus has for him, but another part of her desperately wants to save Albus from the pain of never seeing what Harry Potter could be after defeating the Dark Lord.

That’s the only thing driving her when she swoops into his path and traps him against the wall of the tunnel. Somewhere behind her, his cousin whimpers pitifully as another Dementor—one she’s never seen—swoops in. Like calls to like, and she supposes she should feel guilty, but—

In the depths of Harry Potter’s eyes, she can see the fragment of Voldemort’s soul taunting her.

She has not performed the Kiss since Peter Pettigrew, and when she opens her mouth beneath the hood, fear swims in Potter’s eyes, but his grip loosens when he glimpses beneath the hood.

In truth, she appears no different than she did in life, but it is yet another mechanism of magic that her kind has access to; though most choose to allow their appearance to wither in favour of their magic, she maintains her grip on hers, if only to greet Albus with something familiar when he passes.

For a moment, Potter sags into her, and his soul begins to dislodge. Ariana focuses intently, trying to dislodge the fragment of Voldemort’s soul that has intertwined itself with Potter’s, but it struggles, thrashing against her. It’s powerful, far more than she anticipated, and Potter’s grows dimmer by the moment.

A frustrated growl escapes her, and she shifts, trying to regain her focus, but a rock clatters at the mouth of the tunnel, and her attention slips further. A slight woman in a ratty sweater stares at them, mouth dropped open in shock, and it’s all the leverage Potter needs to escape. 

When he summons his wand and casts a Patronus at her, Ariana rears away, the brilliant wand light searing her flesh and sending her back to Death.

**June 1997**

For punishment, Death rescinds her status. 

It was a gift, he’d told her, to be given to help her brother redeem himself and to regain Death’s instruments. But with betrayal comes punishment, and hers was to watch her brother and hope that he would choose the correct path.

Now, Albus sits behind his desk in the headmaster’s office. In his hand, he cups a lemon drop wrapped in thin parchment. The design stamped into the surface has created caverns for the parchment to stick to.

The little shop they were purchased from closed many years ago, its business failing as new shops sprung up around Hogsmeade and students stopped venturing off the winding paths towards the small shops off the main street.

If she had a voice of her own, she would call to him. But her words are bound.

A ghost’s magic is strange and varied, but there is one element which binds them all—and its bindings chafe at her will. Death holds her voice in his hand, only giving it freedom when it serves the greater good. 

The greater good. Ariana scoffs silently at the reference as she looks down on her brother.

The truth of his failings lies hidden in the folds of his cerulean robes, but even the gauche swirling pattern of stars and planets can’t hide the shame that weighs his shoulders down. It hangs heavy in the air of the office, and if it were a scent, Ariana is sure it would smell like the charred remnants of his fingertips and the salty trail of his tears.

She has never hated her brother—not even in those tremulous moments where his attention was wrapt by the slight boy with the shifty eyes—but now… 

The emotion twisting at her burns like a betrayal. It claws up her throat in a bid for escape, and as much as she wants to shove it down, she can’t.

She expects the knock at the door before it sounds, just as she expects the wiry, messy-haired youth that waltzes through the doorway.

_ Harry bloody Potter. _

The vitriol in her surprises her. Perhaps it’s the boy’s build and mannerisms which remind her so much of those early days with Grindelwald. Maybe it’s the way that Albus so clearly loves the boy with something far more fierce than he ever afforded her or the memory of her failure at his hands that burns her so.

Regardless of what it is, Ariana can’t fight the anger that burns in her. 

Albus brightens incrementally. “Harry, my boy—”

“You’ve found one? A Horcrux?” Potter is curt, to the point, and it doesn’t endear Ariana to him.

Dipping his head, Albus studies the boy over his half-moon glasses. “I believe so,” he allows, clasping his hand over the lemon drop again. 

Heavy silence settles between them. It’s clear that Potter is wrestling with whatever he wants to say, and Albus takes pity on him. “It is natural, I think, to be afraid.” 

“I’m not scared!” said Harry at once, his shout echoing through the room. It’s loud enough that even Ariana jumps from her vantage point just outside the towering windows of the headmaster’s towers. “Which Horcrux is it? Where is it?”

“I am not sure which it is—though I think we can rule out the snake—but I believe it to be hidden in a cave on the coast many miles from here, a cave I have been trying to locate for a very long time: the cave in which Tom Riddle once terrorised two children from his orphanage on their annual trip; you remember?”

Potter dips his head shakily, belying his claim of fearlessness. For the first time, Ariana feels a spark of sympathy for the boy despite her wish to rage at the both of them for their naivete. He’s only two years her elder now, if one were to count living years and not those she’s spent in one form of half-life or another. 

A memory flickers through her: two boys tormenting her in her parents’ yard, shouting and poking and prodding a constant in her life no matter how she begged them to stop. Like she was their own personal plaything. If the emotions Potter fights to keep off his face are any indication, he feels much the same.

* * *

The visions lance through him like a finely hewn blade.

Ariana bloody and broken on the packed dirt of his mother’s cellar. Grindelwald’s head bowed in shame as he was carted away from him, his eyes searing Albus with hatred as he stared at his former lover still grasping the only prize he’d ever wanted: the Elder Wand. The Potters. Sirius. Cedric Diggory. 

Harry.

Distantly, he can hear someone begging. There’s a delay between his brain and the realisation, taking him several belated seconds to recognise it as his own, but even the recognition can’t stop the incessant babbling slipping over his tongue. 

“No…” he groans as Harry lowers the goblet back into the basin and refills it for him. “I don’t want to…I don’t want to…Let me go…”

Tears glitter in Harry’s eyes, but he still coaxes the liquid to his lips. “Please, Professor, you have to drink. There’s just a little bit more.”

If only to soothe the stark fear that pales Harry’s features, Albus parts his lips incrementally, allowing the liquid to slip into his mouth in a pitiful stream.

A mistake.

Red-hot pain blooms over his tongue, fire licking up his esophagus, and Albus opens his mouth, a long, high-pitched scream escaping him; the noise echoes all around the vast chamber, across the dead black water. “No, no, no, no, I can’t, I can’t, don’t make me, I don’t want to—”

His scream cuts off abruptly. Harry scrambles for the lake surrounding the island, and in his place, a being flickers, just once, and he recognises it. Ariana. She’s frantically moving her lips, shouting something, but no words escape her, and suddenly the cave explodes.

The moment Harry’s goblet touches the surface of the water, inferi explode out of it, reaching for him hand over hand. The creatures fight one another, scrabbling blindly for him and yanking Harry beneath the surface.

For just a moment, Ariana blinks into existence once more, her voice loud. “Get up and save the boy!”

Albus isn’t sure if it’s a hallucination or not, but he pushes himself upright and summons his wand. His magic is weak, but grows stronger by the moment, an inferno raging from the tip of his wand and clearing the way for them across the lake.

“Professor, hurry!” Harry’s shout is a beacon, and he follows it blindly, half drunk from the potion and the pain. By the time they reach the opposite shore, he’s nearly incapacitated by the pain, and Harry has to haul him upright as he Apparated them away.

* * *

For all his life, Albus has worked to overcome the errors of his past.

His mother, Ariana, Aberforth, Grindelwald, Tom Riddle, Harry Potter… all of his failures flash before his eyes as he stares at Severus Snape, his wand pointing at his chest, and yet he has eyes for nothing but the apparition of his sister, standing at Snape’s side and watching as tears stream down her face.

Perhaps this is his salvation in his final moments. 

Albus has never dared to hope that the glimpse of her familiar hair he saw all those years ago was anything but the wish of a broken man, but now he clings to it, a bit of peace to soothe him.

“Please, Severus.” 

The jet of emerald wandfire arcs towards him, but Albus has no need to watch it approach him. He doesn’t feel it when it collides with his chest. He isn’t aware of the last breath leaving his body. 

He’s not the broken man that lies at the bottom of the Astronomy tower.

* * *

Ariana waits.

Death has long since found her, notifying her that her duties have been fulfilled. She was given an option: to remain here, guarding the Veil, or to step within. To whatever exists on the other side.

It’s tempting, she admits, but after all this time, an ember of hope still burns in her chest. 

She’s not sure how long she lingers there, in the half life between what she was and what she is to be—it could have been minutes or days—but the air suddenly shifts, and she knows she’s not alone.

Lemon. 

On a gentle breeze, the scent of lemon wraps around her. It’s an instantaneous comfort, reminding her of days long past, and she allows her eyelids to flutter shut as tears prick the corners of her eyes. When she speaks, her voice shakes, the tone of it strained by the weight of her hope. “Albus?” 

He no longer wears the heavily velvet robes he favoured in his last days at Hogwarts. His half-moon spectacles no longer hide his brilliant blue eyes. “Ariana.”

A sob breaks from her throat as he approaches her. “You can see me?”

“So it would seem, dear sister,” he whispers, approaching her with a half smile. His eyes twinkle just as they always have, and he pulls her into an embrace that she has longed for, even after all these years. “How long have you waited?”

“Long enough.” Her watery laugh punctuates her response, and when she pulls away, she has to wipe the tears from her eyes. “We’ve got plenty of catching up to do.”

He nods seriously, gesturing her forward. “Yes, beginning with the magic a Dementor is capable of.” He cuts his gaze to her as they walk. “You would think that you would share groundbreaking magical theory with your brother… even from beyond the grave.” 

The familiarity of the playful jab brings yet more tears to Ariana’s eyes, but she smiles all the same. “I’m not sure you’d believe me the reason why even I told you.”

“Ah, but I’m sure I would. But, as you’ve said, there’s plenty of time.” They stop just before the stone archway, both of them tilting their necks back to look up at its depths. Just as Death promised, there is no indication of what lies beyond the entryway, and a brief thrill of fear runs through her before Albus reaches for her hand, squeezing it once in reminder.

His opposite hand disappears into his pocket, and when it emerges, the tears in her eyes spill over once more. “Do you fancy a lemon drop?”

Words escape her, but she accepts the candy all the same, popping it into her mouth as they cross the Veil together. 

**Author's Note:**

> Some of the lines in the scene in Dumbledore’s office are directly quoted from _Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince._


End file.
